Faith

[ampoule]

Faith

A day like any other, I suppose,
but not,
Too hot to accomplish anything.

Chores and frolic, so abundant,
while I sit,
Not fit, for work or pleasure.

Shoulders back, neck extended,
I take,
My wake, my sleep, combined,

Waiting for that breeze, that tease,
so bold,
I hold my breath, soon, yes, soon,

Just before I cave and sink,
it soars,
My pores are prickled by that summer time dream.

ampoule, August Twelfth, TwoThousandTen

[PrinceMyshkin]

I don't think you could write a bad poem even if you tried. I very much like the spareness of this, the white space around it, and by the unexpected upbeat of the ending.

(Couldn't you post in a somewhat larger typeface?)

[ampoule]

Thanks, Prince, but sure I could, and have, many times, most times. Sometimes I feel like a painter who dips her brush into a bucket of paint, then splashes the paint against the canvas, to go wherever it goes....no rhyme, no reason, no constraint, no form...

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks, Prince, but sure I could, and have, many times, most times. Sometimes I feel like a painter who dips her brush into a bucket of paint, then splashes the paint against the canvas, to go wherever it goes....no rhyme, no reason, no constraint, no form...

Last night, on a scratch-pad I keep on my night-table, I scribbled the following lines:



The poem without the poet
runs free, without the stain of personality
or the stink of ambition...

It is there, somewhere, for each of us who wants it.

[tailor STATELY]

I love the playful lilt of your poem.

Enjoyed.

[ampoule]

Thank you, tailor.

[Bar22do]

Summer dreams.... mine here nears nightmare... but it's as if you'd written this poem for me... No clear distinction between one's waking and sleeping states, the air's boiling, heat's unrelenting, day and night... I squelch out, in, through, a bluebottle irrevocably caught in thick oil, and the coming of dusk doesn't help...
Your poem didn't refresh but still took my awareness to the realm of art, and art it is.
Thanks a lot for it.
Bar